


No Proof, One Touch, You Felt Enough

by izloveshorses



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Anya is very very touch starved, Canon Compliant, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Touch-Starved, and it works out well bc Dmitry's love language is touch, hands hands hands hands haaaaaands, in which the author projects herself onto Anya again, it's about the yearning!! the longing!!!!, trust is a Big Deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izloveshorses/pseuds/izloveshorses
Summary: “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered.She froze.His slow footsteps echoed, almost louder than his voice. “You get all stiff whenever I’m near you.”It was true. She couldn’t help her instincts screaming at her to run every time someone larger than her was a little too close for comfort.She finally looked up at him as he stopped a healthy distance from her. His eyes weren’t teasing or demeaning like they usually were, or angry like a few moments ago, but instead they were solemn and serious. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.“Believe me, you've made it clear I’m incapable of scaring you,” the corner of his mouth twitched up a fraction and dropped again. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I won’t hurt you.”She crossed her arms and studied the toes of her boots. It was unfair. He could read her thoughts in an instant, apparently, before she even knew them herself, and she still couldn’t figure him out at all.“Just trust me, okay?”~~~Exploring how Anya is touch-starved and how that affects her interactions with Dmitry.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 165





	No Proof, One Touch, You Felt Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just me projecting myself onto Anya and talking about Derek Klena's hands for 11k and no I will not apologize

The bitter wind bit at Anya’s cheeks as she stared at the towering palace doors. Snow started to fall, shelter and warmth waited inside, yet she still couldn’t seem to make herself knock.

She’d been in Petersburg for a few weeks when she heard of someone who could get her the travel papers she needed to escape. He apparently lived in this old boarded up palace, selling forged travel documents for people as desperate as her. Borders kept closing and the officers were less forgiving, so she had to work quickly. Why was she hesitating?

_What if he says no? What if I find myself alone again?_

She shook the doubts out of her head, then pounded her fist on the door. When there was no response she pushed it open. The wind howled ominously until she slammed the door shut behind her, and everything fell uncomfortably silent. A once-magnificent lobby was before her, but the thick, dirty windows and the impending storm made the place seem darker and colder than it should’ve been. Still, she was grateful for the shelter from the unforgiving wind. 

Anya took a few steps forward before a man crouching behind a sofa startled her. He clearly hadn’t wanted to be seen.

“I’m looking for someone called Dmitry?” she asked him. His eyes behind a pair of dirty spectacles gave Dmitry’s whereabouts away. Behind her, a younger man was crouched with a wooden chair held over his head.

The older man beside her dusted himself off and said lamely, “You can’t be too careful these days.” 

The young man— Dmitry— gave up and lowered the chair. “I’m Dmitry, what do you want?” he sighed.

“I need exit papers—” Anya explained, but stopped when he brushed past her into another room. She clenched her fists and followed him. “I was _saying_ I need exit papers, and I was told you’re the one who can get them.”

“Exit papers are expensive!” He placed the chair behind a small dining table. 

“I’ve saved a little money.”

“The _right_ papers cost a lot.” He brushed past her again back into the main entryway. _So, we’re playing this game,_ Anya thought. She’d dealt with people more difficult than this. Surely he couldn’t be _this_ bad all the time.

“You’ll get your money!” She followed him again. The older man was sitting on the sofa, almost amused at the exchange. “In Odessa, I washed dishes, and before that I worked in a hospital in Perm.”

He took off his hat to hang near the door. “That’s a long way from here.”

Her patience was draining fast. “I _know,_ I walked it.”

For the first time since she walked in, Dmitry stopped moving and actually looked her in the eye. “You _walked_ here?” With his hat off and hair a mess, she supposed he could’ve been handsome, if it weren’t for that permanent scowl on his face. He stepped closer and he was over an entire head taller than her. His eyes narrowed, “Who are you running from?”

“I’m running _to_ someone.” 

“Who?”

She shook her head. This wasn’t supposed to get personal. But she couldn’t stop herself from continuing, “I don’t know. But they’re waiting for me in Paris.”

She was right. His grin was worth the wait and it _did_ soften his features, but it wasn’t genuine. She decided to hate him. 

He muttered something about jumping into a canal and both men laughed. Anya’s anger flared up.

“I’m _not_ crazy!” she shoved his chest and was satisfied to see him stumble back a bit. The force of it felt good under her palms. He was still grinning, but he kept his distance and straddled a chair. “Why are you so unkind?”

Vlad spoke up from the other side of the room. “We were hoping you were someone else. Someone who may not even exist.”

She was suddenly aware of where she was standing. Dust layered everything in sight. The space held fragments of the past— elaborate mirrors, paintings of strangers, knick-knacks— but they were unidentifiable underneath the years of neglect. Perhaps this place was as haunted as she was.

“I think I’ve been here before,” she muttered, and she was surprised they heard her. Sometimes her lack of a past betrayed her. She knew opening up would only bring ridicule, but she was so overwhelmed by the random memory she couldn’t help spilling more irrelevant details. 

She collapsed in the chair the older man pulled out for her. He ordered Dmitry to get her some food from the kitchen, and of course Dmitry complained but listened anyway. Her stomach gurgled. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning before work.

“You seem to be a gentleman,” Anya said, “even if your friend is not.” 

“Gentleman?” he giggled. His beard was overgrown and tangled, his wool suit torn. He’d missed a button on his shirt. Anya decided to like him. “Life hasn’t been easy for my young friend.”

“Life hasn’t been easy for _anyone,”_ she spat back. Hardship didn’t excuse cruelty.

Dmitry came out of the kitchen with a small glass of water and a plate of one cube of cheese and a small slice of bread. Their fingers brushed when he handed the food to her and they locked eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it. He only blinked and nodded in response. 

The older man stood up and made a big show of bowing to her. She couldn’t tell if he was just doing it to annoy Dmitry, but she smiled anyway. “I’m Vlad.” He grinned. “What’s your name, my dear?”

“I don’t know,” she said without thinking. Had she forgotten this wasn’t supposed to be personal? They laughed of course, but she continued, “the nurses at the hospital gave me a name. Anya. I don’t remember anything before that.” She wanted to leave it at that and move on. If they weren’t going to help her she needed to quit wasting her time and figure out a new plan. But their curiosity was peaked, so she told them her story. Years of working low wage jobs. Years of walking, of sleeping under bridges, of nightmares keeping her awake, of witnessing violence and suffering. Years of not knowing a _thing_ about who she was. All of what had happened to her should’ve broken her, but if anything, her hardships made her more determined to find whatever family she had left.

“I _know_ they’re waiting for me in Paris. I just…” she stuffed her hands in her pockets and fiddled with her diamond, the only hope she had of getting out of there. “They told me a long time ago to find them there.”

Dmitry’s amusement had slipped away, but instead of scowling like he was earlier, he was thoughtful. Then he grinned at Vlad and said, “Maybe we can help you after all.” He lifted her from the chair by her elbow. She hated that she flinched, and she hated that he noticed and backed away, but she followed him into another room. His eyes told her he had a wild idea. The scary part was she didn’t think she’d tell him no.

Perhaps this would be more complicated than she thought.

* * *

Princess training was annoying. 

They’d spent weeks holed up in that dusty palace, desperately feeding her rules of courtly etiquette and memorizing family trees. Dmitry was constantly barking orders like “Elbows in!” and “Back straight!” and when Anya ignored him to enjoy her meal, he’d step behind her and push her shoulders back into the chair. He wasn’t as rough as the handsy men she’d encountered in the past, ones who tried to pin her down when she refused to cooperate with their desires, but her fists still clenched at every touch. She knew what men wanted. She wouldn’t let her guard down easily.

She had a diamond in her pocket. She didn’t have to deal with them. But they weren’t entirely off-base, she _could_ be a Romanov after all. And it’d be less suspicious if she traveled out of the country with them instead of alone like she’d planned.

Today they were practicing a waltz. Poor Vlad looked like he aged three years in the past hour. Despite his patient instructions, they just… weren’t getting it. She and Dmitry stepped out of time with Vlad’s counting and they were so out of sync it was almost painful. Her dance partner stepped on her toes again and she kicked his shin in retaliation. She felt bad for Vlad, having to endure their endless bickering, but she felt absolutely no pity for the boy crumpled below her and swearing about the welt he’ll have tomorrow. Anya was unimpressed.

Vlad gripped his hair, his smile strained into a grimace. “You both are _insufferable._ I’m going to get a glass of vodka.”

“I could use one too,” Dmitry called. He stretched and collapsed into the sofa, limbs spread, oozing laziness and apathy. He didn’t seem to notice Anya’s glare.

“No!” Vlad popped his head back into the room. She would’ve delighted in the complete shock and betrayal on Dmitry’s face if Vlad hadn’t continued, “keep practicing. For my sake you’ll improve a little before I come back.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Anya crossed her arms, staring pointedly at him, challenging him to get up. 

He grunted and stood. “Let’s try this again.” He held out his hand and they stumbled through the steps again, Anya counting. She groaned in frustration. 

“Why can’t we get this?” She tossed her hands up and stepped away to take a sip of her water. Her legs already ached after work, but this was unbearable.

“My feet hurt, too, you know.”

“Congratulations.”

“Why are you always so angry with me?” Dmitry said. He’d followed her to where their waters were sitting. 

She knew he was just trying to rile her up but she took the bait. “I don’t know,” she slammed her glass back down on the table, water spilling over the edge, “why have you been rude to me ever since I walked through that door?”

He had the audacity to laugh. _Laugh!_ “Me? Rude to _you?_ You’re the one coming in here like you own the place!”

“How so?”

“You don’t listen! We’re trying to help you get out of here, and you don’t take any of our lessons seriously!”

“I’ve literally been learning this stupid dance all day.”

“Look at all the progress you’ve made.”

“We’d be farther if you’d quit stepping on my feet!”

“Maybe it’d be easier if you’d actually let me lead—”

It was Anya’s turn to laugh. “You know what you are?”

“What? What am I?” They were nose-to-nose now. 

_“Arrogant.”_ The word dripped from her mouth and she loved the taste of it. “Vain. Self-centered. Irresponsible. Conceited—”

“I could think of a few words for you, too, princess.”

“Go ahead!” Her voice was rising and it felt _good._ “Bonus points for words with more than one syllable!”

A bitter smile spread across his mouth and he lifted his head to his full height. She hadn’t realized how close they were standing. He laughed, defeated. “Let’s just try this one more time.”

She wasn’t ready to quit arguing. “Are you going to step on me again?”

“I can’t promise you that.”

She groaned and brushed passed him, restacking the piles of history books and biographies she’d been studying. Organizing the mess on the dusty table by their chalkboard in the corner was easier than dancing. Or trying to have a conversation with this man.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered.

She froze. 

His slow footsteps echoed, almost louder than his voice. “You get all stiff whenever I’m near you.” 

It was true. She couldn’t help her instincts screaming at her to run every time someone larger than her was a little too close for comfort.

She finally looked up at him as he stopped a healthy distance from her. His eyes weren’t teasing or demeaning like they usually were, or angry like a few moments ago, but instead they were solemn and serious. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

“Believe me, you’ve made it clear I’m incapable of scaring you,” the corner of his mouth twitched up a fraction and dropped again. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I won’t hurt you.”

Of all the things she expected from him, a promise of safety wasn’t one of them. She crossed her arms and studied the toes of her boots. It was unfair. He could read her thoughts in an instant, apparently, before she even knew them herself, and she still couldn’t figure him out at all.

“Are you saying it’s my fault we can’t get the dance right?”

“No! It’s just…” He sighed. She finally wore him down. “Just trust me, okay?”

 _Trust._ That was as rare as the diamond sitting in her coat pocket. She had never found it, at least as far as she could remember. She looked up at the boy standing in front of her, his hair falling into his eyes, his brow a little sweaty, holding his hand out to her as a white flag, despite her insults. She took his hand.

His knuckles and palms were a little calloused but otherwise his hands were surprisingly warm. She placed her hand on his bicep and he rested his on her back, just above her hip. All was quiet again and they were just a breath apart. They’d been standing in this proximity all day but for some reason this moment felt more charged and fragile than before.

Anya broke the silence by counting. Instead of looking down at their feet she held his gaze, and when they went a few minutes without stepping on each other, her counting stopped. Something clicked somewhere— they were actually moving together in sync and it was almost liberating, _freeing._ Anya finally understood why dancing was such a popular past time, she felt like she was flying, floating midair. The complaints, the aches, the arguments of the day all faded and Dmitry’s hand on her back kept her grounded. He beamed, like a little boy holding candy, and she had to bite her lip to contain her grin.

His gentle tug told her he wanted to pick up the tempo a bit. Her heart raced as they danced around the room, and she actually giggled when he lifted and spun her around through the air, hands gripping tight around her waist, and she was surprised she knew he wouldn’t drop her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d genuinely laughed like that. He laughed too, and it wasn’t the bitter laugh she’d heard moments ago— it was a deep, guttural, reckless laugh.

It was delightful.

The noiseless music they were dancing to slowed. The air between them shifted, suddenly charged, electric, fragile. As they slowly orbited each other, Anya felt a magnetic pull that she couldn’t break away from, gravitating to his touch and eyes. 

“God above,” Vlad finally clamoured back in. “it got so quiet I thought you’d killed each other.” 

Dmitry dropped her hand and her gaze and she stepped away, startled. She wiped her palms on her skirt, disliking the cold in the absence of his warm hands. 

He ran his fingers through his hair. “I think we got the steps.”

“Do you want to see?” Anya asked, trying to summon the excitement from earlier and shake off whatever just happened.

Vlad waved his bottle of vodka, somehow still exasperated. “I trust you both. Get some rest, let’s finish tomorrow.”

They walked out of the dusty old ballroom and Anya was glad to finally get some rest. She was on her way to the kitchen when Dmitry brushed a hand on her shoulder as he skirted around her. It was so casual and natural that she stopped in her tracks, still unsure why she didn’t flinch this time.

She’d worry about it later.

The weeks went on as usual. Same lessons, same frustrations, but less… arguing. Anya still bickered with Dmitry but there was less animosity between them. Biting insults fell into gentle teasing. She even laughed with him a few times, on the rare occasion where he was actually funny.

She couldn’t figure out why, but she became impossibly aware of his proximity to her. Everytime he stood beside her, the warmth radiating off his body; whenever he’d plop into the sofa next to her, his knee brushing hers; their hands grazing as they washed dishes after dinner. The weirdest part that Anya had trouble accepting was that she actually looked forward to those little touches. 

Maybe it was because she’d only ever known touches intended to scar or bruise. Somehow, she knew Dmitry wasn’t lying when he said he wouldn’t hurt her. 

The foreign concept of gentleness became familiar.

* * *

“Dmitry!” Anya found him in the market after another uncomfortable encounter with one of the soviet officers she’d seen a few times now. “We have to hurry, they know what we’re trying to do—”

“Who?” 

They walked through the market as she explained. “His name is Gleb, he knows where we’re living—”

Recognition and horror dawned on his face. “What did he do to you?”

This was the second time the deputy commissioner had offered her tea, but with other armed officers stationed just outside his door, she had no room to refuse. She was polite enough to shake his hand because the alternative was unthinkable. His grip on her hand matched his grip on her broom a few weeks ago: cold, unrelenting, and merciless as his gaze. Then, smiling as if they were old friends chatting over brunch, he’d implied that she could be killed for continuing her escape attempt. 

She shuddered at the memory of his fingers gripping her chin.

“They brought me to his office after my shift was over,” she started, and to counter the flash of protectiveness in his eyes she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing happened. He just warned me that we could get into trouble for trying to impersonate a Romanov. So we have to get out of here soon—”

They walked into an alley where four men were stumbling around a fire barrel. Empty bottles and uneven footing were never a good sign.

“Hey!” one of them shouted, “if it isn’t the prince of Petersburg.” He stumbled towards them and Dmitry dodged a hand aiming to clap his back. “Where’ve you been?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Paris?” another chimed in. 

Dmitry stepped in front of Anya as the men surrounded them. Uh oh. “I missed my old friends!” His voice was filled with his usual confidence but Anya knew he was uncomfortable. “Excuse us, we’re just passing through—”

“Looks like he’s got himself a new girlfriend instead,” the other man slurred, drawing everyone’s attention to Anya. 

“She’s not my girlfriend!” 

Anya didn’t hear what happened next because Dmitry was holding her hand. Despite the freezing temperature his hand was warm, gripping tight, tugging her close. 

She snapped back into reality when one of them yelled, “have a drink with us!”

“Come on, Dmitry, I don’t like these people,” she said, pulling his arm. They’d take a different route home. But when she turned around one of the men was right in her face, the stench of liquor polluting his breath. 

“Too good for us, sweetheart?” She backed up a few steps, but Dmitry was no longer behind her. Another man grabbed her arm and said, “If you don’t want her, Dmitry,” one starting to grip her skirt, _“I’ll_ take her.”

The sounds of feet scuffling and Dmitry’s “Leave her alone!” were lost when Anya kicked the groin of the man in front of her. He howled and released her skirt and chaos broke out. She bit outstretched hands, clawed faces, thrashed when grabbed, elbowed noses, anything to break away. At one point she got ahold of a smoldering stick from the firing barrel, swinging wildly, and then she heard Dmitry’s strangled cry. He was pinned down by one of them, trying to loosen the man’s grip around his neck, and Anya’s vision turned red. She smacked the man’s spine and he yelped. His hands around Dmitry loosened but he tried to yank the stick from Anya, screaming when it burned through his glove. Dmitry recovered enough to throw a punch or two, but it was mostly Anya who held them off. The last ruffian to come to his senses was scrambling to his feet from the icy ground when she chased after him, stick waving over her head, unleashing an unhinged screech as she ran down the alleyway. 

She was suddenly lifted into the air and spun towards the opposite direction, her feat kicking angrily.

“Let me go!” she thrashed. “I can still take them!”

“I believe you.” Dmitry loosened his arms around her waist and set her on the ground again. Adrenalin pumping, she whirled around to face him, stick still raised, and she saw something between fear and amusement and awe in his eyes. 

She wasn’t ready to quit fighting. She couldn’t afford to. After years of living on the streets, she was used to this common occurrence, but that didn’t mean it got easier to deal with the aftermath. She could still feel ghosts of tight grips around her wrists, hands intending to hurt.

The indentation of a hand wrapped around her arm faded when Dmitry’s hand rested on hers, a sign of peace. The gentleness startled her. Her hand loosened its grip on the stick as he took it, his fingers lingering before tossing it back into the fire barrel. She still felt defensive for some reason. “I didn’t walk halfway across Russia without learning how to defend myself.” He laughed, eyes still stuck on hers. “You’ve had it easy,” she teased.

His smile fell. “Not so easy.” His brow hardened back into its usual expression. He sat on the dirty bench, shoulders sagging with memories. 

“I’m a good listener,” Anya sat next to him with her feet up and crossed, hugging her knees, ready for whatever honesty he had to offer. “If you want to talk about it.”

“You’re good at a lot of things,” he muttered. It wasn’t quite a compliment or an insult, so she nudged his shoulder with the toe of her boot to continue. He finally laughed again. “My father… he didn’t exactly like the monarchy.” He eyed her cautiously. “He was one of the anarchists that got thrown into a labor camp. I’ll never forget the day he didn’t come home…” He trailed off, lost in whatever horrors he’d witnessed. He shook his head, “I was only twelve. And my mother… I don’t even remember her. Dad loved her a lot.” 

“Who raised you, then?” She sat forward to show she wanted him to finish. Did he end up in an orphanage or hospital like her? 

“No one!” His back straightened. The confidence that usually annoyed her returned. “I raised _myself.”_ He grinned with pride only a boy with nothing could carry. Then he tilted his head thoughtfully, “Well, I guess you could say the city raised me.” He stood up suddenly, grinning like he just had an idea. “I want to show you something.” 

“Is it safe?”

“Yeah of course!” She raised an eyebrow at him and he took his hand out of his pocket, holding it out to help her up. “Trust me.”

There was that word again. _Trust._ This was the first time he’d voluntarily revealed anything about himself to her, letting some of his unrelenting walls fall down. She bit her lip and took his hand.

They wound the narrow streets, Dmitry pointing out a few landmarks of his life along the way. “I stole bread at that bakery once. The manager chased me all the way down the road, but next time I was back I think he left a few scraps for me.” They ran a little bit, not out of fear but because he was genuinely excited about what he was showing her, laughing at his past self and pointing at certain spots and places. Running with her hand in his felt like flying. They finally made it to the destination he had in mind: a bridge overlooking the Neva, the sunset glimmering on the water. Anya gasped and clung to the railing. She’d only seen the ugly side of Petersburg— the endless work shifts, creepy officers, damp grounds where she slept. This was breathtaking. 

“Dad used to put me on his shoulders so I could get a better view. ‘Bet you can see all the way to Finland from up there, Dima!’” 

“Dima?” Anya laughed with him. 

“That’s what he called me.” He leaned over the railing, his shoulder brushing against hers, smiling at the memory. “There’s not a day I don’t miss him.”

His honesty shocked Anya. He’d been so stoic and closed off all these past months, but now she saw they had a lot more in common than she’d thought. They were both orphans, both forced to grow up too young, both hardened by whatever past they experienced. “So neither of us has a family,” she said, trying to convey that she understood him a little more now.

“You don’t know that yet!” His conviction and earnesty made her look up at him. His eyes locked with hers and she was astonished he cared so much. “The answer is in Paris.” A beat passed. They both looked down at their arms touching, their proximity taking Anya’s breath away again.

He stepped away and ran his fingers through his hair. It looked soft. “Now, tell me about her little dog,” he said, trying to bring back that professional voice.

“His name was Toby…” Anya really wasn’t in the mood. “I loved him so much.”

“Well, don’t stop!”

He messed with his hair again and for a fleeting second Anya imagined it was _her_ fingers running through his hair. She clenched her fists and muttered, “I’m not as strong as you think I am.”

“What?”

“I don’t—” she looked away. “I don’t know what I’m _doing,_ Dmitry.”

There was a pause before he said, “Close your eyes.” She must have looked at him weird because he laughed. “Just do it.” She made a big show of huffing and sighing, but she complied. “Hold out your hand.”

“Dmitry, what—”

“Trust me!” She hesitated at the word again. But she did, and his cold fingertips brushed against her palm and something small and heavy fell in it. “Now, open!”

An elaborately-decorated toy was in her hand. She couldn’t contain her childlike delight. 

“You’ve been working hard, you’ve earned it,” he said, grinning. She couldn’t believe it. Someone actually _gave_ her something. Something other than a piece of food or a paycheck. 

“What is it!” She asked, studying the engravings.

“It’s a music box.”

“It’s beautiful!”

“It’s broken.” She looked up at that, his hand was rubbing his neck sheepishly. He looked so much younger, a bit more shy and less tired, and Anya wondered what he was like without the weight of the world on his shoulders. “I haven’t been able to get it open.”

She fiddled with it for a second and something struck her. Somehow she knew exactly how to open it. Dmitry was bewildered, but Anya didn’t hear him over the twinkling song that started to play. She was entranced, lost in the spinning ceramic dancers, and the delicate carvings, the words to the song emerging from the depths of her mind. 

The twinkling stopped and Anya realized there were tears in her eyes. She looked at Dmitry, unsure of how to decipher what just happened. 

He cupped her cold hands and an unspoken promise fell between them. _We’ll solve this together,_ he said with his eyes.

She stepped away and dropped the music box in her pocket. She tried to change the subject, attempting to shake whatever intimacy just passed, “How soon do you think we can go?” She looked back up at him, but his eyes were down to the ground. “I worked two extra shifts this week,” she put the cash she’d picked up into his hand. “It’s not much but—” 

“We’re not even close, Anya!” 

“What are you saying?”

He clenched his jaw and looked away. “I thought I could get us out before the rest of the borders closed—”

She moved into his line of vision, a spark of anger in her chest ignited by his inability to face her. “You were the only hope I had.”

“There must be someone else who can help you,” he placed the money back into her hand, closing her fingers around it, “I’m sorry—”

Her temper flared up. “I don’t want your money!”

“It’s your money, you’re the one who worked for it—”

“It’s _our_ money! I trusted you!”

“I said I was sorry—” he tried to walk away.

She marched in front of him to brace her hands against his chest to stop him from leaving. _“I didn’t trust you enough!”_ she shouted, the confession making him finally stop and look at her. It was too late to take back the words. _Trust._ It wasn’t something she could find easily. She stared at her hands on his chest, still holding the cash, taking too long to step back. He looked down at her, his hair a mess, and she realized whatever relationship they had was about to change. He’d given her something more precious than the music box in her hand or the diamond in her pocket: his story. His heart. He’d let down some of his walls, now it was her turn. 

“Now you close your eyes.” He protested, but she didn’t let him. “You’re the stubbornest person I’ve ever met.” A beat. “Almost as stubborn as me.” He rolled his eyes and closed them. “Hold out your hand.” He pursed his lips but he did as he was told.

She took a big breath, reached into her pocket, and placed it in his hand, her fingers brushing his palm. 

He studied what she’d given him. “It’s a diamond!” he exclaimed in awe, holding it to the streetlamp’s light. 

No going back now. “A nurse at the hospital found it sewn into my underclothes.” She kept looking at him to assure her honesty. “She said not to tell a soul until I have to, until I could find someone… I trust.” His silence made her nervous. “If we sold it would we have enough?”

“We’d be able to go to Paris ten times over,” he muttered. His eyes dropped from the diamond to hers. “You had it _all this time?_ And didn’t bother to tell me?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised he wanted to argue. “Yes.”

 _“Why?”_ He stepped closer to her. 

She took on the challenge and stepped even closer. “It’s the only thing I have!! Without it, I have nothing!” 

“How do you know I won’t take it now and you’ll never see me again?”

“I don’t think you will!” She couldn’t believe herself. But her words were honest.

He stepped away, exasperated, his fists tossed over his head. “If you weren’t a girl, I’d—” She silently dared him to finish that sentence. Regardless of the past weeks spent together she’d knock him out cold if he tried anything. But he wrapped his arms around her waist and spun her around, laughing, his nose and his breath tickling her neck. She yelped, clinging onto his solid shoulders. He set her down, his face still close to hers, grinning like a boy again.

“There you are!” Vlad was running towards them, trying to catch his breath. “It’s a disaster, kids. The Yugosov palace has been raided! If we go back they’ll find us—” His eyes widened, staring above Anya’s head. “Mother of Moses.”

She looked up. Dmitry was holding the diamond above her head in triumph. She rolled her eyes, tired of their theatrics. 

“Anya had it the whole time!” Dmitry shouted, but his smile made his tone less bitter. Vlad looked at her, barely containing his excitement. “Vlad, you can get the papers, right?”

“Done!” 

“There’s a train leaving the Finland Station tonight at midnight!” Anya called as he ran away. “Hurry!” She grabbed Dmitry’s arm. “Does this really mean we’re leaving!?” 

“Yes!” he said, laughing. “We’ll need a cover story to get past the officers at the station, but we’ll worry about that later. I’ll go fetch the diamond.”

She squealed. “I’ll go pick up my last paycheck!” She ran towards the market where she worked. “Every ruble counts,” she called over her shoulder. 

Excitement buzzed through her entire body. Every experience since leaving the hospital had taught her not to trust anyone because betrayal was inevitable. She could’ve sold the diamond and gotten herself a ticket, but for some reason, she _wanted_ to leave with Dmitry. Perhaps that scared her more than anything. 

* * *

The train was too crowded for Anya’s taste. She was sandwiched between Dmitry and a stranger, who’d already called her crazy for her for raising her voice. She forgot, after spending so many weeks with only the boys’ and their patient teasing for company, what most men were really like. 

She ignored how, when she’d hesitated to board, her heart skipped a beat when Dmitry’d placed a hand gently on her back, because there was no way it meant anything. Nope. 

The stranger stood up and the pair had the bench to themselves. Vlad sat across from them but didn’t move to sit with them, so Dmitry adjusted himself to rest his head and sleep. Well, sort of. He tried but his body was weirdly contorted against the window and the creaky wooden bench. 

After several minutes of this, Anya sighed. “You can stretch your legs all the way out if you want.” All of his huffing was distracting her from her book anyway.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, clearly uncomfortable, long legs bent awkwardly, miles between his toe and her thigh.

“I don’t mind.”

He readjusted again. “My boots are muddy.”

“Take them off.”

“My feet will stink.”

She laughed. “Then rest your head here then.” She bit her lip.

He stared at her for a long moment, and she wasn’t sure how to read his expression. How could she have been annoyed with him only a second ago? He finally sat up. “Okay.”

She lifted her book off her lap and he laid his head down, loosening a happy breath as he got comfortable. He blinked at her once and she hid behind her book.

“Thank you,” he whispered. When she looked down at him he was already asleep.

About an hour went by. She didn’t get much reading done because, honestly, her eyes kept flitting back to the face in her lap. Dmitry was softer when he was asleep. The most vulnerable she’d ever seen him. Again, she wondered what he was like before he was exhausted by the weight of his hardships. She’d caught a glimpse of that boy the night before, but she didn’t think he showed that side of himself very often. She’d only see it when he thought no one was looking. His arms were crossed but relaxed, his brow not as stern, his mouth not a frown. His hair didn’t fall into his eyes and she wondered what it would look like combed back. She had to keep both hands on her book unnaturally high and close to her face because she might’ve started to run her fingers through it if she wasn’t careful. It looked so soft, and he would never know, but she resisted. His head was a steady weight against her leg. She could feel each breath run through his body against hers, and for some reason the rhythm of it was comforting. 

Eventually he stretched and Anya knew it was time to go back to her book and pretend she hadn’t been staring at him for an hour. 

“How’d you sleep?” she asked casually.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Her lap was cold without his head resting there. “Never better,” he said, smiling, and she knew he meant it. “How’s your book?”

“Fine,” she hummed, hoping he couldn’t tell she was lying. And then it hit her. He asked her about a _book,_ something so mundane and trivial, something she thought no one would care about. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him after that. 

Vlad grumbled across the seat. She’d completely forgotten about him. Dmitry scooted closer to Anya to let Vlad sit next to them, his other bench getting more and more crowded. 

Anya thought, after spending an hour with someone pressed up against her leg, she’d be used to being pressed up against him, but her heart still skipped a beat when the entire side of his body was flush against her.

Vlad was chatting about Lily, the Dowager’s beautiful lady in waiting, when the train screeched to a halt and a couple of officers towered over their seats. Anya didn’t hear much of what was said at first because Dmitry casually draped an arm around her and scooted even closer. Instead of looking at his hand resting on her shoulder, she buried her face in a book, hoping the officers didn’t think she was hiding something.

“... wrong papers?” Vlad was asking, tense.

“He had the right papers but the wrong name,” one of the officers said, his voice too loud and commanding. “Count Ipolitov.”

A gun went off.

Anya yelped and instinctively buried herself in Dmitry’s chest, sobbing. He immediately wrapped his arms around her, holding tight, protective of whatever happened. Her ears were ringing. She didn’t hear Vlad leave, she didn’t hear any of the nervous chatter in the car, she didn’t hear what Dmitry whispered in her ear. She still couldn’t breathe. He gripped her shoulders and through her tears she could see his eyes, blurred, but close. He was saying something but the ringing in her ears was as loud as a siren blaring out its warning. 

“Anya!” He repeated, quiet but firm, and this time she heard him. “Anya, listen! You’re safe.”

She blinked the tears away. She’d heard that before. “That’s what the soldiers said… when they were pointing their guns at us…” 

“No one’s pointing guns at you!” He whispered. “You’re taking this too far!”

She had definitely stared down the barrel of a gun before. When or where, she had no idea. The thought was _terrifying._ “What if I really am her—”

Dmitry shushed her and quickly looked over his shoulder. “We’re almost out of Russia. After we cross the border we won’t have to worry about this. Right now, you just have to trust that I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?”

His hands were still gripping her shoulders. They’d loosened a bit and one slid down her arm and she shivered. She’d already committed herself to trusting this boy, so she nodded.

“Disaster!” Vlad appeared again, frantic. “Some Czechist officers just boarded. They’re looking for two men and a young woman fleeing the country.”

“That could be anyone?” Dmitry said lamely and stood up.

 _“I don’t think so!”_ Vlad held up a wanted poster. Sure enough, their three portraits were front and center. 

Anya had one impulsive idea. She grabbed her suitcase and started climbing out the window. 

“What are you doing?!” Dmitry yelled, but helped her anyway, his hands on her waist keeping her steady.

“Getting off this train!”

“But it’s already started moving—”

“Unless you want to end up like Count Ipolitov,” she clung onto the outer railing, sticking her head back through the window, “I suggest you follow me.”

Dmitry shrugged at Vlad and followed. Anya would’ve been shocked that he was willing to hang off a train with her if they weren’t… well, hanging off a train fleeing for their lives. There was a scramble inside as Vlad climbed out, the officers tripping over seats to catch them, no doubt.

Anya looked at Dmitry again. 

And then they jumped.

* * *

They hitchhiked their way through Germany. At first it was mostly walking, but they found rides in various trucks and cars passing by. Anya was surprised no one suspected they were fugitives, given their filthy appearances and wandering eyes. Sometimes they found inns where they could rest, other times they marched on through the night and slept where they collapsed. Sometimes, when those who were kind enough let them sit in the back seat of their cars over longer distances, they could get a few minutes of rest.

A massive pothole jostled Anya awake. She’d fallen asleep against Dmitry’s shoulder, exhausted. He was awake now, too, and he smiled softly when she looked up at him. He cleared his throat and she scooted as much to the side as she could.

Vlad was sitting in the passenger seat while chatting with the driver. “Kids, you’re awake!” He whipped his head around. “Welcome to France!”

Anya gasped and leaned out the window. They were driving through a narrow road in the woods, the sunset poking through the leaves of the cherry blossoms. While Anya was awestruck, Dmitry just said, “It looks like Russia.”

The car slowed to a stop and the three of them stepped out. Vlad was busy waving his hands around lecturing Dmitry on the importance of culture and appreciating beauty, so Anya stuck around to talk to the driver for a minute. He was a charming little farmer anxious to get home to his family so he had to drop them off here, just outside Paris. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for!” He said with a smile as he drove away. 

_Me too,_ Anya thought. She ran to catch up with the boys.

“This is as far as he goes!” She exclaimed. “At the top of the hill, he said you can just see Paris!”

Vlad threw his arms in the air. Always ready to celebrate something. “Are you prepared to be astonished?” Then he sprinted up the slope.

Anya laughed. Dmitry grinned at her, giddy they were about to reach what they’ve been working for. That they were alive, and here, and together. He started to follow Vlad when she stopped him.

“Even when I was mad at you—” she blurted, and he looked at her again. Where was she going with this? She settled for what she’d needed to tell him for days now. “I never doubted we would.” Her words were true. “Thank you, Dmitry.”

His grin slipped into something resembling awe. For the first time since Anya had met him, he was speechless, until he dropped his head and rubbed his neck bashfully and mumbled, “Thank Vlad.”

She stayed out of arm's reach of him because if she were a step closer she might’ve kissed him. And then where would they be? So she just stared at him for a moment, letting herself smile softly, until Vlad called them again.

Dmitry offered to pick up her suitcase for her. Just this once she let him, only because she wanted to run.

* * *

“You look ravishing, darling!” Vlad exclaimed.

Anya felt ravishing, perhaps for the first time in her life. They had enough cash for a few new outfits for each of them after the hotel rooms and ballet tickets. Anya stepped out of the shop wearing a pink dress— it looked so soft and delicate on the rack, like the sunset and cherry blossoms they walked under last night… she’d never owned anything like it. It was the first of many she’d tried on. Then she’d gotten her hair styled and curled into an updo, her face brushed with makeup, her boots replaced with fashionable heels. She never imagined herself spending money on things outside of necessity or survival, so the whirl of shopping was a bit overwhelming.

She loved every second of it.

She tried not to love the way Dmitry’s eyes skimmed the low neckline down to the swish of her skirt. He admittedly looked nice and all cleaned up in a crisp new suit, one that broadened his shoulders a bit. She finally got to see his hair slicked back and free of grime and she wasn’t disappointed. 

“Well?” she asked, twirling, her confidence at an all-time high.

He swallowed. And blinked. “Not bad.”

She rolled her eyes. Nevermind then. Turning to Vlad she asked, “Do we have enough left to celebrate tonight? Before the ballet tomorrow?”

Vlad’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Why else would we have gotten dressed up, my dear?”

And for the first time in… well, ever, the three of them relaxed. They ate a delicious dinner— savoring each bite instead of scarfing it down, because they knew it wouldn’t be their last. They drank a little too much champagne. Vlad told more stories about his wild afternoons in court and they all laughed, Anya occasionally catching her hand falling onto Dmitry’s arm.

When the first gentleman asked her to dance, she looked at Dmitry and Vlad, almost panicking. But Dmitry simply smiled and nodded, encouraging her to show off her hard-earned skills. _Might as well,_ she thought. She couldn’t believe how much fun she was having— giggling and spinning her way across the dance floor, the music new and vibrant and pounding in her gut. Horns and drums blared all the words that’d been trapped inside her chest for her entire life. Bursts of energy hummed through her limbs and she could’ve danced the entire week. There was so much life and color in the Parisian air, so much _freedom,_ compared to the slumped and tired Petersburg.

Anya halted when she spun straight into Dmitry’s solid frame. The question of why he wasn’t sitting at the table anymore fell when he smiled softly and held out his hand.

She felt the same magnetic pull from their dance lessons months ago, gravitating to his touch, wanting to taste the freedom and joy with him again. Heart leaping to her throat, she saw it all play out: his hand would delicately hold hers, he’d pull her close, and she wouldn’t dance with anyone else for the rest of the night, content to fly and soar with him until her wings grew tired. And then… 

Her fingers grazed his palm when a previous dance partner yanked and spun her away. A few songs later she caught a glimpse of Dmitry back at their table, his eyes on still her.

Some other time, then.

* * *

 _“Papa!”_ Anya screamed and leapt out of bed, terrified of what she’d see when sleep consumed her again, the tangled sheets wrapped around her ankles like a snake.

Someone called her name again and at first she thought she was still dreaming. She thrashed until a pair of arms wrapped around her, pulling her close and tight, and she gave up and balled his shirt into her fists.

“The voices keep coming back—” she sobbed in his chest.

“That’s all they are, voices,” Dmitry whispered. “You were having a nightmare.”

After a few minutes of him gently rocking her he started to move away, but she wasn’t ready for him to leave yet, so she blurted, “Stay with me.”

He half carried her, half shuffled to the bed. He wasn’t holding her anymore but he kept his hand rubbing small circles on her back. “Is that better?” he breathed.

She didn’t hear him over the buzzing that took over her mind. With her eyes free of tears she could see his arms were bare, muscles shifting under smooth skin, outlined by the full moon shining through the window. Her mouth went dry. She decided she needed to change the subject— anything to distract her from the fears spiraling around in her head and his arms she couldn’t quit staring at.

“Who do you think I am, Dmitry?” she asked softly.

He blinked at her and slumped his shoulders. “If I were the Dowager Empress, I would want you to be Anastasia.”

She was shocked by his honesty. “You would?”

He took her hand and looked at her straight on, determined for her to hear him. “I’d want her to be a beautiful,strong, intelligent young woman.”

She wondered if he could hear her heart thrum louder. Not from fear, like a few minutes before, but from a thrill she only ever felt around him. “Is that what you think I am?”

“I do.”

“Oh.” She broke his gaze to look down at their intertwined hands, their legs pressed together, his bare shoulder brushing hers. So much _skin._ Electricity crackled at the contact and sparked through her limbs so she dropped his hand and scooted away. “Thank you,” she added.

“Your welcome,” he muttered lamely. He fiddled with his fingers and Anya missed the warmth on her skin. 

Frantically trying to diffuse the tension, she teased him. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d give me a compliment.” He rewarded her with a short laugh but he was still slumped, his hand running through his already-disheveled hair. They stared at their toes for a minute. She tried a different tactic. “Do you really think I might be her?”

He stared at her for a long moment, gaze unrelenting, and sighed. “I want to believe you’re the little girl I saw all those years ago.”

She perked up at that. Ready to listen, she rested her head in her palms, eager for one of his stories she’d grown so fond of. She liked the way his eyes smiled when talking about the past. It was one of those rare moments where she could imagine him as a young boy again, carefree and ready to take on the world.

“When I was ten years old— before my father was taken,” he started, his eyes already softening, “we went to one of the annual royal parades in the middle of summer. Dad meant to stay in the back as a protest but I… I don’t know, when I saw her sitting high in her car, sitting so straight and regal I just… I had to get closer. So I—” he stood up and paced slowly, trying not to forget any details, “I somehow cut through the crowd— there were probably thousands of people there that day, perhaps the entire city— and I got past the guards and just stood there in the middle of the road. And I called out her name and she turned around, and she actually smiled— _smiled—_ at me!” 

He grinned at Anya and lost himself in his memory again. “But they traveled on, and the sun was in my eyes and then she was just… gone.” His hand reached out and his fingers curled around air, heartbreak washing over his face. She wondered how many times he replayed this moment in his mind.

“You’re making me feel like I was there, too,” Anya said, trying to compliment him. 

He shrugged, grinning again. “Maybe you were,” he sat down next to her again, their shoulders brushing. “You never know.”

“I can see it…” she started, the picture he painted so clearly for her. “The bright blue sky, the cheering crowd,” she bumped his shoulder. “A scrawny little boy.” 

He raised his eyebrows when she mentioned him and she giggled. “He made his way through the crowd and ran after us, determined to be seen, calling out my name—” her stomach twisted. The memory was no longer a story, it was something that _happened._ She stood up to pace, rubbing her temples. “Mamma told us we weren’t supposed to smile, but I couldn’t help it, the boy was almost flying he was running so fast. And then…” she gasped, froze in her tracks and looked at him, tears in her eyes. _“You_ were— you bowed!”

He jumped up. “I didn’t tell you that.” His head was shaking, too stubborn to hope.

He didn’t say no. That meant this was a real memory. That meant she was there.

That meant… 

“You didn’t have to…” a knot formed in her throat. She was almost too overwhelmed to continue. She barely heard her own voice it was so soft, “I remember.”

A beat. She didn’t know if a second or a year passed before she felt the ground crumbling beneath her cold feet. She was dangling precariously on a tightrope, wobbling between believing her own memory and believing what she’d been told for years— _She’s crazy! Her head is filled with dangerous fantasies. Why’s a street sweeper trying to get to Paris—_ But Dmitry was there, his arms grounding her as her world flipped upside down, and she decided to trust herself as much as she trusted him. She was so overwhelmed she let her hands wander where she’d only imagined a few days before. Her fingers tightened around his biceps for stability, his eyes promising he’ll never let her disappear again, his smile soft and vulnerable. 

“It’s you,” he whispered, his voice as unsteady as her knees.

He brushed a stray hair behind her ear and she shivered, his fingertips sending more jolts of electricity through her. “It’s me,” she breathed.

Dmitry slid his fingers down her arms to hold her hands. He looked down at them, almost in awe, holding her so delicately, gently rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. He tugged her a little closer and grinned at her in disbelief and a familiar thrill rushed through her whole body. The same fluttering she felt when they danced.

Anya decided to give into it this time.

She let her shaking hands rest on his sturdy chest, her fingers roaming. She let her hand travel up to his face so her index finger could trail his jaw and rest in his dimple like she wanted to on the train and so many times since then. She let him step close enough she could feel his warmth radiating off his body. She let herself lean into his palm when he cupped her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear. She let him cradle her arm, fingers gently grazing her skin, as he tilted his head down, nose brushing hers, just a breath away. She let her eyes fall to his lips. She let herself imagine what it’d be like to close the gap— 

She let him jump away so fast a breeze kissed her face instead. 

His fists curled and uncurled, stiff at his sides, feet shuffling awkwardly, his eyes on the ground. 

“Your highness,” he said. His voice was at a normal volume but it was too loud and broke the fragile moment. Then he dropped to a knee, his head low.

In the absence of warmth from his proximity, without his breath tickling her cheeks, she’d never hated the cold so much.

* * *

The next morning was uncomfortable to say the least. Vlad spent the night with Lily and left a note with detailed instructions for Anya and Dmitry. They were to make sure their outfits were ready and appropriate for the ballet and for meeting the Dowager, Anya was to review as much as she could before tonight, and they’d meet at the theatre lobby. 

Anya just wasn’t in the mood for the day. She’d tossed in her bed for the rest of the night, wondering what could’ve happened, writing speeches to him in her head. _I’m still Anya,_ she’d tell him in the morning. _I’m still the girl who danced with you. I’m still the girl you explored Petersburg with._ But he wouldn’t even look at her when he handed her the note. The confusion of the night before and the realization that she’d be meeting her _grandmother tonight_ left her stomach in a tangled knot and it took her awhile to leave her room. As she got ready, she tried to calm her thoughts and focus on reuniting with the only family she had left.

She didn’t see Dmitry again until the ballet. She stepped into the lobby, looking for her boys in a sea of tuxedos and gowns, and… there he was, kneeling on the floor right next to her trying to rub a scuff mark off of his brand new shoes, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. She tried to say something but her voice faltered. What was there to say? The hem of her dress caught his attention and his eyes trailed up, agonizingly slow, to meet hers, his jaw hanging.

Anya’s heart swelled so much she thought it would burst.

Dmitry scrambled to his feet and offered her his arm. A grin sprung to his face when she took it and held him close. His eyes shone with adoration and joy, his smile on the cusp of laughter, and she couldn’t help beaming up at him. His vulnerability was so rare and she cherished every time he opened his heart to her a little bit. She decided to put whatever confusion between them behind her and focus on this moment; she wouldn’t let the worries of what was to come ruin her first date with a boy she loved.

The thought smacked her across the face.

Her heart tripped when she realized, as they walked to their seats, still clinging to his arm, it was true. She’d been in love with him for a long time now.

But then she remembered why they were there when she caught a glimpse of the Dowager in her private box before the lights dimmed. The doubt and worry of what would happen during their reunion left no room in her mind for processing what her feelings for the boy sitting next to her meant. 

She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder, to silently tell him how much she needed him, but she fiddled with her fingers instead. Her nervous energy must have been radiating off of her because he gripped her hand and squeezed, thumb sliding over her knuckles. All of the tension left her body. She felt his eyes on her neck but when she looked up at him, he was staring at the dancers, so she decided to tear her eyes away and do the same. 

He held her hand for the entire ballet. Through intermission. In the lobby. When Vlad introduced her to Lily. 

Only when it was time to meet the Dowager did he let her go.

* * *

It didn’t go as planned.

“That was my life you played with!” Anya muttered vaguely to the boys standing in the corner of the hotel room in shame. Her thoughts were too jumbled to string her words into something that made sense as she packed. “Telling me I was someone else— letting me believe I was.” She kept her head down as she slapped her belongings into her suitcase.

She knew this was a scheme to begin with. She knew Dmitry and Vlad were only in it for the money. But when the Dowager snapped that Anya was just another actress— _did you audition?_ She’d asked bitterly— trying to take advantage of an old woman… it left a foul, disgusting taste in Anya’s mouth. They’d turned her into a liar. They’d used her memories— or lackthereof— to get rich. This had all just been a game to Dmitry, and she was so desperate to escape she fell right into it.

Anya was used to people hurting her, but betrayal was a new kind of pain.

Her chest tightened with every breath. A lump forming in her throat from frustration, disappointment, and sadness, she willed herself not to cry. 

An odd shape on the table stopped her in her tracks. It was an ugly old doll, which probably would’ve charmed her before, but instead a new wave of resentment twisted her stomach. _I won’t cry,_ she thought. _I’ll be angry._

“What is this?” she asked, finally looking up.

Dmitry messed up his hair and stuttered, “Uh, I bought it, for you, before—”

Her vision turned red as she marched up to him. “I don’t _want_ it,” she spat as she shoved the thing into his chest, making him stumble back. He reached his hand over hers to catch the doll and she yanked it away.

She stomped back to her suitcase and heard Vlad try to reason with her. She decided to hurt him.

Whirring around, she sneered, “No wonder you were dismissed from court!” That stopped him. “You deserve every bad hand life deals you!” She breezed past him to look directly at Dmitry. “You _both_ do!” He wasn’t even saying anything, yet she felt the need to be honest with him. Maybe that would make him feel the pain he brought upon her. “I admired the way you were proud of who you were. You taught me to be the same.” Tears threatened her eyes again when recent memories of running through the streets of Petersburg flashed across her mind. It was humiliating thinking he actually cared. How long had he been lying? “But the whole time you were tricking me.”

“Anya, I didn’t—”

“You did! You lied to me!” She hated being contradicted. “You told me you wouldn’t hurt me, remember? I can’t believe I was stupid enough to believe you were special, to let you make me feel like _I_ was special.”

He winced. Good. “I’m sorry—”

“I don’t want your apology.” She turned away, her unsteady voice rising. “I don’t want your doll, I don’t want your help, I don’t want you in my room!” 

The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, she whispered, “Please leave me alone.”

Vlad muttered to Dmitry, “Perhaps we should let her cool off.” Dmitry tried to say something but Vlad gave him a look, and he relented, eyes on the floor as he shut the door behind him.

In the elaborately furnished room, still wearing her radiant blue gown, Anya had never felt so small.

* * *

Her Nanna held her the entire night. Neither of them let go.

* * *

She found him on her bridge. 

Anya couldn’t believe he hadn’t left yet. What he was waiting for, or why he was waiting on the bridge of all places, she had no idea, but it didn’t matter. He was there, sitting on his suitcase, his crisp suit gone.

She opened her mouth and realized she didn’t know what she was planning to say. What _could_ she say, anyway, after their last sour conversation? After she found out he didn’t take the money, something he prioritized over everything? So she just stared.

He saw at her, finally, and turned his head away in disbelief. “If you ever see me from a carriage again, don’t wave, don’t smile.” Didn’t he know why she was here, in this giant dress, worthless compared to how she felt with him? He shook his head. “I can’t be in love with someone I can’t have for the rest of my life.”

She didn’t hear what he said afterwards over the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. _Love._ She realized he’d been confessing his love for a long time now, with every touch to her shoulder, every squeeze of her hand, every gentle nudge or tug. A grin sprouted on her face but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. To her horror, he was leaving, before she’d even said a word. Then she understood that no matter what words she used, no matter how long she stood there, he wouldn’t believe her because he thought so lowly of himself.

She’d have to show him.

“I always dreamed my first kiss would be in Paris with a handsome prince,” she blurted, just to get him to stop moving. To stay.

It worked. “I’m not your prince,” he faced her, “Anya.”

She closed her shaking hands into fists and marched up to him. “The Grand Dutchess, Anastasia Romanov,” she yanked his suitcase out of his hand, their fingers brushing, and she slammed it on the ground to use as a stepstool so she could meet his eye level properly, “would beg to disagree, Dima.” He looked too confused to argue. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to run, but she knew she had to give into what her heart was yearning for. She grabbed his face and pressed her lips to his.

For one fleeting second he was stiff but then he melted into her, his arms holding her tight and flush against him and she wondered if he could feel her heartbeat against his chest. She sighed, toes curling in her shoes as her fingers curled into his hair. One of his hands slid up between her bare shoulder blades and she shivered.

Grinning against his smile she breathed, “I love you too, you know,” holding his face, her thumb tracing his dimple.

He responded by bumping his nose against hers. She giggled when he pressed his lips to her nose, her cheeks, her forehead, her freckles. _I love you so much,_ he said with each peppered kiss. His unapologetic affection took her breath away.

He lifted her up by the waist to set her gently on the ground and offered her his arm. A few nights ago he’d done the same, but now she was free to cling as tightly as she wanted, to play with his fingers, to rest her cheek against his shoulder. 

“Where to now?” he asked, softly beaming down at her as the walked.

She hummed. Honestly, she hadn’t thought this far, but she didn’t care, as long as he kept holding her close, she’d fly with him anywhere. “I think you owe me a dance.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Comments and kudos are appreciated. Come chat with me on Tumblr @izloveshorses <3


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